


Innocence

by telanaris



Series: Arcana One-Shots [4]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-24 19:51:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13818255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telanaris/pseuds/telanaris
Summary: a fluffy little continuation of the scene in Julian’s route at the end of Book IX. (beware, MAJOR spoilers if you have not played it yet~)





	1. Chapter 1

_a little continuation of the scene in Julian’s route at the end of Book IX. (beware, MAJOR spoilers if you have not played it yet~)_

* * *

 

_He looks triumphant, and vindicated. There’s a wide wonder in his face, like he can’t quite believe it himself._

_“I didn’t kill the Count. That dungeon…. It has everything. My answers, and my cure.”_

In that moment, in the close, dry warmth of Muriel's home, Julian is radiant: practically vibrating with energy and the excitement of his recent remembrance, his victory. He's all wide-eyed and wondrous, and between the parted lapels of his waistcoat she can see his chest, the way it rises and falls so dramatically with each breath. And in all the time she's known him, in all the time they've shared, she's never seen him in such a state: effervescent. Like a pot threatening to boil over, as though the sheer joy and  _relief_  he feels is too much for his body to contain it all. 

(In all the time she's known him, he has never looked so alive: but that span of time is only a few days. Often it is difficult to believe they are still so new to each other.)

In comparison, her reaction is... subdued.

The truth is that she can barely contain herself, though she feels it is imperative: she  _must_. No matter how she cares for him, how entwined their paths and ambitions have become, this moment is  _his_. It is for him. The most burdensome question, answered, and the shroud of darkness that’s covered him for years rolling back like fog out to sea... even if there is still so much left to do.

And honestly, his answers don’t surprise her—not in the least. She knew he was brilliant, even if he did not believe it himself; she is thoroughly unsurprised that he is the one who discovered the cure. 

She is even less surprised to learn that he is innocent—she's believed that since the beginning. Or, no, not believed it, that’s wrong—she's  _known_  it, deep in her bones, her faith in it unshakeable even if she was at a loss to explain it. 

But what lies behind the eyepatch… that, that does surprise her.

The impulse to hide it is… understandable, she supposes. And she probably shouldn’t find him as pretty as she does, as he is now, the white of his uncovered eye not white but ruby red. But diseased or not, it’s a fact that the intensity of the gaze with which he always looks at her has just been  _doubled._

And as his two storm grey eyes meet her own, it stirs a weakness and a longing in her that she is hard-pressed to control. This is his moment— _this is his moment_ , and though (aided by magic) it is easy to forget, Muriel is still looking on, and so this is certainly not the appropriate place or time to be jumping his bones, to press her mouth to his and pull him out of his clothes and  _devour_ him. 

Oh, but isn’t he  _beautiful_  like this? Hair pushed from his face, features golden’d from the fireglow, and that look of unbridled hope on his face... it steals her breath away.

 

 

Compared to Julian, her reaction is quieter, harder to read—and this does not escape him. She’s hiding something. He sees it, as clearly as he now recalls that night in the dungeon. They’ve only known one another for a few days, but they’ve spent enough time together to read one another’s faces, and her face, her eyes… she’s looking at him strangely.

Strange enough that, no matter what it is, he can’t help but flush a little bit under her gaze, intense and steady as it is.

His hand lowers, fingers loosening in his curls; he leans closer to her. “What—what is it?” 

She hums in response, raises her arms—and they are trembling. 

And suddenly his confidence and his wonder wavers, as unsteady as her hands.

Is he... is he that hideous, that he's sent her shaking so? His eye—well, he knows it isn't pretty. Really, he can hardly blame her. 

Her fingertips continue to flutter even as she plants her hands on either side of his face, fingers settling along the high cut of his cheekbones. The thumb of her hand swipes gently along the skin below his uncovered eye, soft and purpled with weariness and anxiety. 

He must really be a sight. She must be utterly repulsed, she—

But, ohh, when she guides his head into a bow, her hold on his face is gentle and firm. 

She closes the space between them.

When he feels her lips—softly, gently,  _tenderly_ —press against the sensitive skin of his just-revealed eyelid, Julian shudders. For so long the skin there has only known the darkness, the rough cloth of the patch, and the sudden touch of lips (warm, and soft) is enough to leave him tingling. He can feel her exhale shakily, her breath against his eyebrow. 

And when she pulls away, still holding his face between her palms… she is overcome,  _overwhelmed_  to see him as he is, now. Swelled up with pride and more hope than he’s had in days. And she’s smiling.

“I knew you were innocent,” she said, quiet enough that Muriel can’t hear, hushed in the space between them and for his ears only. And she says it with such certainty, such surety, just shy of an  _I-told-you-so;_ she says it with the the same simplicity and confidence that she’d use to recall her own name.

Her eyes are shining, her thumbs still tracing his cheekbones. “I am  _so_  glad, so happy for you, that you finally know it, too.”

And then he feels it, the gravity of it. The thing that’s got her so choked and emotional. Because the truth is, if she had not found him (by some miracle, again and again, finding her way back to him, no matter how frequently or foolishly he pushed her away) and if she had not believed him (against all reason and evidence, in spite of all his protest) he would never have come this far. 

He would never  _know_.

He lifts his bare hand to cover hers, pulls it away from his face so he can press his mouth, gently, to the delta of blue veins in her wrist—swears he can feel her pulse flutter beneath his lips. 

The truth is a precious thing: his innocence is precious. The pride of a success forgotten, now remembered—that, too, is precious. 

But none of it is as dear to him as the woman before him, looking at him like she is: like she’d lasso the moon for him if he asked. Like she’d give him the stars.


	2. Innocence, II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part ii / angst city

Not long after Julian's revelation, the rain had stopped. 

Muriel seemed less than eager to have them stay, and since he had given them such valuable information (even if he had not exactly been forthcoming) she thought it best to take their leave, as a sign of gratitude.

So they crossed the threshold of his door and back out, into the world, down the path that would lead them to the city. And though there was no good reason for it, upon returning to the forest, she found it a little less foreboding. It had rained hard, and thick. The droplets had blackened the bark of the trees, left them dark and glistening in the faint light of evening. The leaves of the plants in the underbrush were just as damp, bejeweled with drops of lingering rain that had not yet met the forest floor. 

When the wind moved through the trees, it was cool on their faces. In its wake, as the tree branches shook, it turned the world percussive, leading off a _patter-patter_ of moisture falling free from the treetops, tapping leaf and root as it descended to meet the ground.

In one hand, she held a ball of magical flame. She had taken it from Muriel's fireplace, carried it out into night, and so instead of the sickly blue-white light that guided them inwards, the path outwards they follow outwards is illuminated in a warm, yellow glow. The light reflected in the puddles of the path like _rheingold_ , ancient and alluring. 

Her other hand was clasped tightly around Julian's.

In Muriel's hut—at the moment of remembering—Julian had been soaring, elated. But now, as they walked back to the city, hand in hand… he was silent.

She tried not to be too troubled by it. Surely now that the initial excitement had worn off, he had plenty to think about. And if he wanted to share his thoughts with her, well. If history was any indication, he had little trouble holding himself back when he had something he wanted to say.

Occasionally, he would squeeze her hand, and open his mouth as if he was going to say something... then he would close it just as quickly, keeping his silence. 

It takes him a few tries before he works up the courage to confide in her. She doesn't mind. The walk is pleasant, but not without treachery; she's happy to focus her attention on avoiding the puddles and high grasping roots that cross their path.

But soon they reach a passage where the rain has carved away so much of the path that it has left in its wake something that is not so much a puddle as it is a shallow, small pool, easily ten feet across. It's far too wide for her to jump. Even Julian, long-legged as he is, seems reluctant to try it and leap it. 

But she's only left to puzzle over it how best to cross it for a moment.

“Hold on tight to that light, my dear.”

That's the only warning she's given: in the next moment, Julian is bent beside her, his arm behind her knees, lifting. She hardly has enough time to throw her arm around his neck before he's carrying her, bridal-style, across the deep puddle. 

He catches her looking at him, wondering what thought it is that is wearing at him now; at her gaze, he only smiles, draws her closer to his chest. “What’s the point of thigh-high boots, after all, if they can't protect you from getting a little wet? These shoes have gotten me through more than one wade in the marshes, looking for leeches.”

Her answer is quick as it is deadpan: "Sex appeal."

Julian laughs in response, the sound paired musically with the rippling of the water against his calves as he makes his way across the puddle. 

“Do you find them sexy?” he asks, punctuating the question with his signature eyebrow waggle.

She leans her head against his shoulder, tilting her head up to him. “Well, I find the thought of you wearing them—and nothing _else_ —to be terribly sexy, yes.”

He bites his lip, halfway between a sultry look and a cheeky grin. “I’ll have to keep that in mind then, won’t I?”

His feet find solid ground; two steps from the puddle, at a safe distance from the soft and sinking loam, he sets her, gently, back on her feet. 

But as she moves away to continue down the path, he holds her; his hands rise to grip her forearms and he looks at her, full of trepidation. On the edge of some confession. And he’s anxious, but he looks… sad, too. It pains her to see him look at her that way, after so soon after such good news.

His tongue comes out to wet his lips, stalling for time; his fingers flex on her forearms. “Earlier,” he began, slowly, “you said… you _knew_ I was innocent. And you said it… so simply. Like it was clear as anything.” 

She smiles at him, bringing her free hand to his waist, settling on his hip; her other hand holds the flame a safe distance from their bodies, but its close enough to light him up like he was in the hut, all golden accents. 

“I did.”

His brow knits, his expression troubled. “I just… I don’t understand. How could you have _known_ that? The way you talk about it…. but we’ve only known each other for a few days…”

His voice trails off, but the question is as clear as if he had spoken it aloud: _Haven’t we?_ As if he is no longer so sure.

And the truth is, she isn’t either. 

“It feels so much longer than that sometimes,” she admitted. It could just be the way it feels: this fresh infatuation, where everything has moved so fast and she is so quick to trust. The way she’s always had a sharp intuition, an eye for what people _are_. But maybe….

“It does, doesn’t it?” And he smiles, faintly, but it is pained and cynical and soon contorts into a grimace. “I wouldn't put it past Asra not to… not to tell us.” He laughs, but it is a bitter sound, without a trace of mirth in it. “I…”

But then his voice trails off, and he’s staring at her, open mouthed, fingers flexing along her arms. _Grasping_ at her as he’s grasping for the words, reluctant to let her go.

Her and squeezes his waist gently, a reassurance, _I’m not going anywhere, love._ “What is it, Julian?”

“It…” and he pauses, tongue darting out to wet his lips a second time. “The thought that we might have known each other… not merely in passing, but known each other _well_ , well enough for you to know have such confidence in me… it terrifies me.”

She tilts her head to the side, inquisitively. “Why?”

“What if I…” and here he can hardly look at her.

_Perhaps I did not kill the Count but still there is so much forgotten, so much empty space: I could have done something far, far worse._

“What if I've already hurt you?” And his voice is so broken. He speaks so softly the words are hardly louder than the murmur of the nearly-spent rain. “Who knows what could have—what I might have done. I know it's only been a few days, but when I’m with you, I feel—“

“Julian, it wouldn't matter.” She releases his waist, raises her hand, reaches up to cup the side of his face. “I want to remember. Like you did, today. I want to.. to know who I was.” She sighed, pushing a lock of auburn hair behind his ear. “But that's all it is. I can't go back to living that way, I gave up on that a long time ago. Whoever I was… she is a stranger to me.” 

And then she smiled at him, fond and true.

“But you are not. You are dear to me. And I trust you. This is good, what we have—this is not something to feel bad about. So let's not fuck it up by getting too deep in our heads about it, okay?”

He looks away from her, back into the puddle they’ve just crossed, and in the light cast from the flame in her palm he  looks ghoulish, haunted by sins he cannot remember—sins he may not have even committed.

_I want so desperately not to fuck this up._

“It would, though. Matter.” Slowly he shakes his head. “You are too kind, you... you think too highly of me. Just because I didn't kill Lucio, that doesn't mean I didn't... didn’t do other things. I am capable of… behaving badly.” Then he waggles his head, an admission: “And not in the sexy, naughty sort of way.”

She would very much like to see that: Julian, misbehaving. Needing to be restrained, or… or disciplined. But she pushed the thought from her mind with a light laugh.

“Julian, look at me.” She took his chin in her hand, guiding his head so they were staring straight at one another. She wanted him to see her, she wanted him to know she was serious. 

“Maybe you’re right: maybe it’s just as you fear, and we’ll find out we knew each other well, and you hurt me _terribly_. Maybe we’ll find out that I hurt you, cruelly, beyond what you could bear.”

Julian opened his mouth to protest, but she shakes her head, _no_ , cuts him off: “If we are going to have this conversation, and we are going to have it seriously, you have to admit that it’s just as much of a possibility.”

Julian sighed, nodded his head. She let her hand fall, fingertips skimming the column of his throat before they traced over his clothes, before coming to a rest at the buttons of his waist coat, playing with them idly as she sought the right words, the right way to soothe him.

“I don’t know what happens then, if we find that out,” she said, and for the first time, her voice is soft. “Neither of us can. But it’s useless trying to hold ourselves accountable for sins we may not have committed. Don’t let that take away from your victory.” 

And then, when she looks at him, she is _beaming_ : grin splitting her mouth ear to ear, eyes sparkling.  She’s looking at him with such joy and such pride that Julian can hardly bear it.

“Julian, you are _free._ A free man, even if you are not yet vindicated in the eyes of the law. But we,” she said, pulling gently on the fabric of his coat to pull him closer to her, press his body against hers, “are going to get _proof_ ,” she said, jabbing her finger against his sternum, “and right now, that’s the most important thing. Okay?”

Julian swallowed thickly, nodded. Lied to her, the first time he’d like to her face: “You’re right.” But that was far from the most important thing, from where he was standing. Free or captive, setting sail or swinging from a noose… it had only been a few days, but already it felt like whatever fate had in store for him meant very little if she was not by his side.

Silently, to himself, he prayed:

_Please, please, let us not discover that I've already hurt her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen I'm like 99% sure that Julian and the MC knew each other in the past, the only question I have is how much pain elle is going to make us feel when she finally reveals how/why
> 
> it's probably going to be a l o t

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed my writing, please consider following me on tumblr where I write as 4biddenleeches. :) My prompt box is always open if there is something particular you’d like to see!


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